


Hard at Study

by Tigh



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Romance, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:21:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tigh/pseuds/Tigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After several hours of intense study, Stiles is too delirious to notice the signs that he is not alone in his room..</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard at Study

Without the benefit of supernatural senses, Stiles was in the process of missing several hints about his current situation. If he did not see the form behind him, he might have felt the shift in the air: after a few hours with the window and door closed, his room was completely stale.  But he did not feel a thing. He was in his body but not really in it. He wore his room like a blanket, intent on the papers before him and accustomed to the weight of silence wrapped around his shoulders.

A few hours earlier might have found the skinny frame at a proper forty-five degree angle of study, but Stiles was now delirious and totally slumped over, one fist comically pressing his cheek into his lips as he propped himself up. With the other balled fist, Stiles rubbed one eye and opened his mouth for an exaggerated yawn. Staring at the whole sheet of paper -- well beyond looking at each sentence in order -- he missed the slight squeak at the edging of hearing, unconsciously writing it off as the shift of his desk chair.

If he did not identify the sound of shoes behind him, he might have smelled the scent of another so close: his room was not dirty, not really, besides the usual floor-as-laundry-pile situation. He smelled only very old books mingled with the day-old deodorant under his arms and a half-eaten protein bar cooking in the lamp light. Even the small metal trash can was empty. Did he even take out the trash yesterday, or did Scott decide to help out when he was over last night? Scott preferred to get rid of unpleasant lingering smells whenever possible. But the trash went out on Thursdays nights -- was today Friday? Stiles absently pawed at his backpack for the heavier weight of textbooks that signaled weekend homework. Definitely Friday.

Stiles swallowed, tasting the lack of any real dinner, or lunch… Did he eat breakfast this morning? There was lunch meat in the fridge, he knew, and bread. He was responsible for most of the food shopping, as his dad was always home late and somehow even more distracted than his son when it came to the details of daily upkeep. Better to make a sandwich and pretend this day was not completely lost to the convenience store. Then why was there a pricking at the nape of his neck? Lunch meat never set off warnings before -- except for the time he stole the last bit of Scott’s sandwich and was favored with that patented tilted-forward, wolfish glare that made him swallow too quickly and cough over the lunch table for ten seconds straight. Why should the thought of food make him uneasy? What did the promise of honey ham have to do with his suddenly whirring fight or flight instinct?

Taste -- the evolving sense in a hungry teenager’s repertoire -- finally clued Stiles in, as he was swiveled around to meet a pair of lips. He could only form a partial gasp as his sandwich aspirations were overrun. A different sort of hunger-sense was suddenly being fed.

Stiles felt a deep growl buzz his lips, one that conveyed pleasure and not a little satisfaction at catching him off-guard. It both numbed him and woke up his addled brains. He felt the scrape of stubble along his chin and smelled the sharp forest pine needle scent that clung to the other’s shirt. Food forgotten, books forgotten, he pulled himself fully into the kiss with his forearm, leaving the chair by inches.

“Thought you might be at it still,” murmured a low voice into Stiles' neck.

“Thought you were another super, asshole,” Stiles mumbled in half-hearted complaint. “You know I’m not safe anymore.”

The taller male breathed deeply. “This room reeks of you." One hand dragged along Stiles’ lower back. “I can tell you haven’t taken a break for hours.”

Stiles swallowed and nodded several times in his frenetic way. “Yeah, I -- uh -- it just smells like a room if you’re a human -- I mean, I think I’m close to a breakthrough so I guess it’s been a few hours and all and --” he paused to smell check his shoulder, turning back to find Derek’s face very close again. “-- and, yeah, so -- wow! Latin is freaking impossible, even with Lydia’s notes!” He licked his lips, mouth hanging open a bit as it always did when he was at a loss.

Derek nosed along Stiles’ cheekbone, dark brows lifted as they tended to do when he wasn’t really paying attention. “Uh huh,” he rumbled, kissing Stiles’ upper lip, knowing the lower half would close in and reward him with both parts of softness. Stiles nodded a few more times into the kiss, finally forgetting to respond to everything.

He protested eventually, whining, “But I’m hungry…”


End file.
